Anderson Kriebel, Creative Writing

Atlantic City High School
Ventnor City, NJ

Born and raised in Ventnor, New Jersey, Anderson Kriebel is an aspiring writer with a focus on the fantasy and horror genres. Some of her favorite authors are N. K. Jemisin and Ursula K. Le Guin, who affect her work by influencing her approach to building both worlds and the characters who inhabit them. She has used the Creative Writing Pre-college experience to branch out and try writing in genres she enjoys but has little experience writing, like romance and contemporary fiction, in which she can project onto/relate to the characters and draw more upon her own experiences. Though these listed genres aren't as fertile a breeding ground for her morbid fascination with everything dead and dying—animals and even humans in various states of decay or undeath often find themselves in her writing—she can still appreciate the more grounded in reality and personal, introspective works which have burrowed their way into both her heart and head.

Sylvia and the Stranger

The stranger had shaggy, dark brown hair that just brushed her shoulders, which she tied back on hot days, which was most days around here. While they worked, Sylvia could watch the stranger work and how the muscles in her back shifted under the weight of wooden beams and hay bales whenever they were working outdoors. The stranger's build was a much slimmer and taller build than Sylvia's, who was shorter and had more muscle mass built up under her. No matter how much the object of her affections resembled a twig on the best of days, she still held her own against the others.  Any shortcomings she had were made up by her speed, and Sylvia knew it sounded creepy, to ogle someone like that while she was just trying to work, but it wasn't like they had never spoken.  She didn't just like the stranger for her looks, even if that was a variable. She liked the way the stranger brushed her hair, softly sectioning long brown into smooth sections, she liked the gentle timbre the stranger spoke with, how softly she cupped the muzzle of a horse when feeding it, there was a quiet warmth to the stranger only punctuated by the kindness in her eyes and the graceful way she moved.

Once, when Sylvia and her father were traveling into town, the stranger and a few other stable hands had tagged along, and while she was making small talk with the group, Sylvia's horse had been spooked by the corpse of a snake, probably run over by the wheels of some other wagon, taken by surprise. Sylvia was bucked off before she could get a firmer grasp on the reins again. The back of her head felt sticky and warm, and when she tried to stand up her legs shook and gave out under her like she was a newborn calf. The stranger helped her back to her feet and cleaned her wounds with some rubbing alcohol she kept on hand; the rest of their ride into town was sent with Sylvia on the back of the stranger’s horse in companionable silence.

Just this night she brought dinner to the stranger’s bunk in thanks, and since it was such a beautiful night, she brought up having a little impromptu picnic, just the two of them under the night sky. They gathered a few blankets in relative silence and laid them out on the field not too far from the little farm. The night was silent, save for the faint whistling of the wind and the singing of various critters crying out into the lonely night.  So many tiny little things in such a large field. Sylvia wondered if any would find each other; it was easy for her to hear the millions of tiny songs meant for another little creature and think, "Just find each other already!" but to the crickets and cicadas, the grass was so tall and the wind so loud, did they know anyone else was out there? Could they hear the cry of another lonely little bug across the darkness? Would they ever find each other, spend the night or two together that they might have until one eventually might leave or is crushed underfoot? Or would so many stay lost and alone in the sea of grass until their short burst of time was up, and they were just another dead bug in the grass, something to be fed to a chirping mass of baby birds that might one day embark on a not too dissimilar task.

Lying back in the grass, Sylvia could feel her eyes boring into the side of her face and tried not to get too flustered until finally, the stranger opened her mouth.  "Is your head bothering you at all?"

"Oh no, I'm fine, how're you?"

"Oh, uh, I'm fine..."

Once again they lapsed into silence, a more awkward, "something has been left unsaid" type of silence. However, Sylvia knew the loneliness that ached in her chest would not be sated until she said something, anything, even if she made a complete fool of herself.

"I'm sorry but, What's your name?"

"Don't have one yet."

"Oh," she paused. "What should I call you then?"

"I hadn't really... thought about that, I'm kinda new to..." She waved her hand around a bit, "all of this, this new kind of... chance at life."

Many people who came to their farm were running from something, be it their past, themselves, or even the law. In all her time here, Sylvia resolutely decided to not judge a person based on whatever it might be they were running from. The stranger's predicament was strange, no doubt, but Sylvia had heard stranger.

"You don't need to figure something out now, a name can be important.  Take your time. How about you bounce some contenders off me?"

"Yeah, I'd like that."

The currently unnamed stranger laid down beside Sylvia in the grass, tentatively tilting her head to the side and resting upon Sylvia's shoulder. In the silence of the night, she desperately hoped to find someone to share her days with.